


Serpent In Your Eden

by Lomonaaeren



Series: Advent Fics 2014 [23]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Emotional Abuse, M/M, War Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-13
Updated: 2014-12-13
Packaged: 2018-03-01 06:35:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2763266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lomonaaeren/pseuds/Lomonaaeren
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry didn’t know what he had done wrong. He and Draco had a fragile friendship, and then suddenly <i>they</i> had nothing, while Draco had a new boyfriend. Of course Draco was entitled to do what he wanted. But he was at least going to tell Harry <i>why</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Serpent In Your Eden

**Author's Note:**

> An Advent fic for digthewriter, who asked for _Harry and Draco had a very fragile friendship when one day Draco stopped talking to him. A week after that, Draco was seen around town with a new boyfriend and Harry is hurt and confused_. So this is the fic that resulted.

“See you tomorrow, Potter.”  
  
Harry managed to nod and smile without showing too much enthusiasm. Too much enthusiasm would make Draco stop talking to him, as if he was afraid he would be contaminated by the cheerfulness. “Right, Malfoy.”  
  
He waited until Draco had turned the corner to lean back against the door of his flat and close his eyes, even though he was  _inside_ his flat and it was unlikely Draco would learn to look through walls now. But he still felt that protective, that worried, about his friendship with Draco and how it might end.  
  
Draco was important to Harry. Harry couldn’t call him by his first name aloud the way he could in his head, he couldn’t express the full weight of his emotions around him, and right now, their conversations were mainly limited to complaints about the press, which they had both suffered from after the war, and Quidditch. (They both favored the Falmouth Falcons, and that wasn’t something Harry could say around Ron, who was as Cannons-obsessed as ever). But running into Draco at the Leaky Cauldron a few weeks ago and persuading him to come back to Harry’s flat to continue their intense conversation proved that Harry could make new friends.  
  
It proved that, contrary to what some well-meaning members of the public and the Auror program had told him after the war, he wasn’t broken and stuck in the past.  
  
Harry shook his head and stood up. He had some studying to do, and he’d promised himself—and Hermione—that he would get to it after he had the pleasure of Draco’s company. He wanted to become a curse-breaker, but Bill had warned him the goblins weren’t about to forgive and forget, and hire Harry on. That left him needing private employment or to impress one of the companies that had their main headquarters abroad but did a lot of business in Britain.  
  
And for that, he had to be  _good_. And, of course, he needed Arithmancy and Ancient Runes, the two classes he hadn’t taken at Hogwarts.   
  
Harry picked up the Arithmancy book and lost himself in contemplation of equations. There was a certain beauty to the numbers when he could detach himself from the thoughts of his future and focus purely on what they were doing on the page in front of him.  
  
*  
  
Harry stared in silent shock at the owl Draco had sent him. Then he put the parchment down on the table and turned back to the brown bird, not the regal black one that Draco sent most of the time—  
  
Only to find the bird itself already winging back into the sky. Obviously, Draco wasn’t interested in a reply.  
  
Harry faced the table and the parchment. He cast a few spells that would reveal words written on the back, or even scribbled and then Vanished. He needed to know if Draco had written anything besides this.  
  
But no. All that remained was,  _Potter, I’ve had it. No more meetings. Don’t talk to me._ And then his name. His last name, only.  
  
Harry stood there for long moments, trying to think what he had done wrong. Had he shown too much emotion last time, laughed a little too loudly at Draco’s jokes, been too eager when Draco asked for another cup of tea because that meant he would stay longer? He had always known that he might someday trip over the line that separated casual friendship and what probably looked like obsession.  
  
But no matter how he thought about it, he couldn’t remember doing anything different than usual. In fact, he’d been more relaxed than he used to be, because he was accepting that Draco wouldn’t suddenly turn on him and say something cutting about Dumbledore or Ron, the way he had when Harry returned his wand.  
  
And Draco had left with the same faint smile on his face as usual, nothing else. Neither had any new stories about Harry appeared in the press that might make Draco think badly of him—and given how much vitriol Draco flung at the editors of the  _Prophet_ every time they met, Harry couldn’t believe that Draco would brood long on a story if one had appeared.  
  
Harry narrowed his eyes. He might not be a close friend, he might be someone who didn’t deserve the dignity of a deep explanation, but he deserved at least a sketchy one. So he wrote a letter asking, “Why?” and nothing else, and sent it away with an owl he borrowed from his neighbor. He still hadn’t been able to buy himself one to replace Hedwig.  
  
*  
  
Draco didn’t respond until the next day, and then his Howler shot up and exploded, literally, over Harry’s head when he was walking down the middle of Diagon Alley. Harry nearly dropped his bag of new clothes from Madam Malkin’s when Draco’s loud, savage voice burst out of the smoking red envelope over his head. He hadn’t heard Draco speak like that since the war. Even when he had insulted Harry when he returned his wand, it had been low, sharp, controlled.  
  
This sounded as though someone—as though Harry—had poked Draco with a stick and then insulted his parents.  
  
“If you can’t  _understand_ what the fuck you’ve  _done_ , then you don’t even deserve this much communication,” the Howler snarled while the smoke flew around Harry’s eyes and concealed him at least partially from the unabashed gaping of the people who were also out at the shops. “But I’ll send this to you so you can’t claim the privilege of  _innocence_.  
  
“If you thought I wouldn’t find out about your little plan to use me, then you shouldn’t have mentioned it in front of someone who has my best interests at heart.”  
  
Then the Howler shredded itself to pieces, and Harry had to dodge those raining paper embers. His mind was buzzing with a worse confusion than before. What the hell was Draco talking about? Harry hadn’t talked to any of Draco’s friends about him, he hadn’t even mentioned him to Ron or Hermione after their first doubtful conversation, and he  _certainly_ hadn’t talked to any reporters.  
  
And plan to use him? What?  
  
The last bits of the Howler were gone, and already a few of the crowd had begun to approach him, predatory gleams in their eyes. Harry had no desire to listen to either their questions or their syrupy sympathy. He tucked in his bag close to his body and Apparated right out of the middle of the alley, back to his flat.  
  
There, he sat down and raked his hand through his hair. He was disgusted to note that it was trembling.  
  
 _I’m not broken._ He was anxious, he had nightmares, he hadn’t been able to function in the Auror program with the constant influx of violent spells against his defenses, he sometimes came back to himself and found that he’d been staring at the walls for an hour, but he refused to think he was broken.  
  
If anything could come close to breaking him, though, it would be Draco’s rejection.  
  
Harry shook his head and closed his eyes. No. It was an aching, jagged piece inside him, but he refused to let this happen, either. If Draco was serious in his resolve not to see Harry again, then Harry would move on. He would build other, different friendships, and he would become a curse-breaker, and Draco Malfoy would turn into a forgotten memory behind him.  
  
It wasn’t that it didn’t hurt. It was just that, after what he had gone through, it took more pain than this to scare Harry.   
  
And  _nothing_ would break him.  
  
*  
  
Ron had been fidgeting for most of their conversation at the Three Broomsticks. Harry had thought he understood why. Originally, Ron had been planning on a date there with Hermione, but Hermione got called away by the announcement of potential house-elf legislation at the last minute, and Ron had invited him to come instead. It was obvious who Ron really wanted to be with, and Harry couldn’t grudge him that.  
  
But now Ron was pressing one hand on the ring on the table left by his mug as if he was fascinated, and he kept sneaking looks at Harry and then looking down at his lap again. That wasn’t missing Hermione, it was something else, and Harry pounced.  
  
“Spit it out, mate.”  
  
Ron looked up so hastily that something cracked in his neck, and both of them winced at the same time. “What? I don’t think you  _want_ me to spit up my Firewhisky, mate.”  
  
It was a weak joke, and Harry gave Ron his most impressive frown. It was one that had chased Rita Skeeter and even an angry goblin away in the months since the war. Ron squirmed under it. “Come on,” Harry said softly. “What is it?”  
  
“Listen, it’s just,” said Ron, and he took a breath and rushed the words out. “It’s just that Malfoy’s got a new boyfriend, and I wondered what you thought of him.”  
  
Harry felt his gut freeze. But he shook his head and said, “Malfoy ended our friendship. What does his boyfriend matter to me?”  
  
Ron whipped his head around, and his eyes immediately took on an avenging fire. “That git! Did he think you would be prejudiced against him because he was gay or something? Didn’t you tell him that  _you_ were?”  
  
Harry was glad that he hadn’t taken another gulp of his drink. “ _What_?” he hissed.  
  
“Yes, I know,” said Ron, nodding. “It was totally hypocritical of him to respond that way. What did you say to him?”  
  
“No, I meant,” and Harry put a hand up and flicked a finger against his own ear, so that he could be sure he hadn’t stuffed it with something, or had it stuffed. “What you said, about me being gay…I’m  _not_.”  
  
Ron sat back, his attention at least on Harry again instead of punishing Draco for some imagined sin. “Could have fooled me, with the way you looked at Malfoy.”  
  
Harry felt a sharp burning in his cheeks. Was that it? Had Draco sensed the way Harry looked at him and been put off by it? Small wonder that Harry thought he hadn’t done anything wrong, because in his own eyes, he hadn’t. But Draco was a lot more sensitive than Harry was to emotional nuances.  
  
This would explain some things, Harry had to admit. Like why his relationship with Ginny hadn’t worked out. Or with Cho, when they met after the war and Harry tried to date her again, after she’d reassured him that she no longer mourned Cedric.   
  
But it still…  
  
“Maybe I am,” he said, and waved a hand to try and get rid of both Ron’s close look and his amusement. “But I hadn’t heard what you said was true. Draco—Malfoy has a boyfriend?”  
  
Ron shrugged and leaned back in his chair. “Yeah. Some bloke I’ve never heard of before, named Julius Kennilworth. Apparently he’s quite handsome. I mean, if you go by Hermione,” he added, quickly enough that it sounded as though the words and not the Firewhisky had burned his mouth. “Not that I look. I don’t know what’s handsome in a bloke.” He hesitated for a second, fumbled around with his tongue, and then added, “Although I think Malfoy should have chosen  _you_.”  
  
Harry gave Ron a delicate, pained smile, but his mind was still working away. He had never heard of Julius Kennilworth either, but that meant less than nothing. After all, there were lots of people in the wizarding world, and Draco had friends that Harry had never met and never would.  
  
But at least he had a candidate for the person who had told Draco this “truth” about whatever Harry was planning.  
  
And it did seem strange that Draco would back away from the prospect of a gay relationship, and then immediately engage in one.  
  
Harry shrugged, looking off to the side.  _You have no idea what drives Draco,_ he reminded himself again.  _Obviously you don’t know him as well as you thought. He could have been friends with Kennilworth for years._  
  
Still, Harry was determined that he would find out what Kennilworth thought he was planning. It was ridiculous that he had lost Draco this way, and then a week later Draco was involved with someone in such a way that the gossip had made it even to Ron’s ears. Harry deserved to know what was going on.  
  
 _Not because Draco likes me. Obviously, he doesn’t._  
  
But it did seem like a strange coincidence, and Harry at least wanted to be reassured that Kennilworth wasn’t the one actually plotting against Draco.  
  
*  
  
Harry flipped another page of the  _Daily Prophet_ and sipped at his drink. Four hours in the same restaurant with Draco and Kennilworth—it seemed that one or both of them believed in long dates—and what he had mostly learned was that Kennilworth was handsome, dark-haired, involved in Quidditch and capable of having long conversations about it, and playing on all of Draco’s weaknesses.  
  
 _That’s a prejudiced opinion. You shouldn’t even be here._  
  
Harry had known he was doing the wrong thing from the moment he had applied the glamour and followed Draco and Kennilworth on their date, honestly. But this was the only way that he was going to learn the truth, since Draco wouldn’t talk to him anymore.   
  
And while the prices on the wine menu alone had made Harry squeak, his vaults could stand the blow. Now, he ate delicate flakes of meat and candied orange arranged on his plate, and turned another page.  
  
Draco was leaning across the table towards Kennilworth, his face flushed and his mouth moving constantly, although the way he was sitting and the distance between their tables kept Harry from hearing what he said. Kennilworth’s voice carried, and he was easier to hear. Draco took another long swallow of wine and went back to talking.  
  
 _That is strange,_ Harry thought. Draco had told him he didn’t often drink—legacy of an incident that had ended up on the front page of the papers last year. And drinking enough to lose control?   
  
 _Maybe he and Kennilworth are about to go to bed for the first time tonight, and he’s nervous._  
  
Harry had to unclench his fingers from the fork before he could move his hand. Even if that was true, it still wasn’t much of his business. He was only here to find out what Kennilworth was like, if he knew him, and if Kennilworth  _did_ think he had some reason for distrusting Harry.  
  
Draco leaned back, and laughed, on an almost hysterical note. “It’s strange to me that you know all these things.”  
  
Harry sat upright with a snap of his spine that, luckily, his angle and the paper concealed. If he couldn’t hear or see them well, they suffered the same restriction with regard to him.  
  
Yes, it was strange that Kennilworth knew all sorts of things about Harry when Harry had never seen him before. Knew him well enough to convince Draco that Harry was plotting against him, in fact, which Harry knew Draco wouldn’t have believed easily.  
  
Unless Kenillworth was a reporter, and had some of the same skills that Rita Skeeter did, to dig up stories that didn’t want to be dug up, without the consent of the people involved.  
  
Harry watched Kennilworth in silence, the way that his hands gestured, how he bent forwards and used his hair to shade his face as he peeked up slyly at Draco, how he tightened his hold on his fork as if he wanted to stab someone with it, and nodded. Yes, there was more going on with Kennilworth than just simply a lucky man who had wanted to date Draco and managed to come up with information that gave him a disgust of another man who did.  
  
Harry sighed and turned to place the right amount of Galleons on the small disk that would transport it to the owner of the restaurant. He could admit Ron was right now, and maybe that  _had_ been what Draco sensed and what had made him run.  
  
But he still hadn’t run until Kennilworth had told him. And how did a stranger recognize Harry’s feelings when he and Draco had met in the privacy of Harry’s flat every time after their initial conversation at the Leaky Cauldron? That was what Harry wanted to find out.  
  
*  
  
Harry got too involved in following Kennilworth and Draco. Or he got too obsessed with figuring out the exact degree of intimacy that prevailed between them, and forgot to watch his steps. One or the other.  
  
One instant, he was wandering behind Kennilworth and Draco as they moved towards an Apparition point on the outskirts of Hogsmeade. It was the fifth time he had observed them, and the fifth different glamour. He made sure to linger at shop windows some of the time, and let them get far enough ahead that they shouldn’t have realized he was observing them.   
  
But the next instant, Draco spun around and grabbed him by the throat, throwing him against the window he’d been looking into. Harry grunted and struggled desperately for breath, and for his wand.   
  
The thought that raced across his mind, oddly enough, was that this would  _ruin_ Draco’s reputation if anyone saw him doing it. And while most of the students who had been wandering about Hogsmeade were back at the castle now, there were still plenty of people around, especially inside the shops.  
  
“Draco? What is it?” Kennilworth had come back and was standing next to Draco, blinking guilelessly at Harry. No matter how hard Harry stared at him, his features still failed to seem familiar, or melt into those of a reporter Harry knew. Harry had never heard of a glamour that complete and long-lasting, but maybe he would have to start assuming one existed.  
  
“I knew he was wearing a glamour when I saw the way he walked reflected in this window,” said Draco, and Harry nearly jerked his head free because of the single sharp shudder that ran through him. Draco grinned, a crazy grin, and leaned his wand against Harry’s throat. “I was right.  _Finite_.”  
  
Harry’s glamour melted away. Draco seemed to stop breathing for a second. Kennilworth blinked and gasped, and then laughed, shaking his head and putting one hand over his eyes as though he couldn’t believe anyone alive was this stupid.  
  
“See?” Kennilworth added softly in the next minute, turning towards Draco and laying a caressing hand on his shoulder. “I know you had your doubts, but doesn’t this just reinforce what I told you?”  
  
“What was it he said?” Harry interrupted, and he tried to catch Draco’s gaze and hold it with his own. If he could do that, he thought Draco would tell him the truth. They had always been good at snaring each other’s attention, holding it there. “I deserve to know that much.”  
  
Draco’s mouth twisted, and his face turned an ugly plum color. But even that only made Harry want to hold and comfort him.   
  
He had it  _bad_.  
  
“Kennilworth was the one who told me the truth,” Draco snapped. “That you just wanted to use me. That you were playing at being friends with me out of pity, because if you could get far enough along in this friendship, it would make you look good.” Harry must have appeared as blank as he felt, because Draco sighed shakily and continued with shards of ice in his voice. “The one who redeemed Draco Malfoy? The hero who still deserves to have attention paid to him as more and more people forget about the Dark Lord?”  
  
Harry stared. His immediate impulse was simply to say, “What?” Because Draco had had conversations with him, and he should have known how much Harry despised his fame, and how little it would occur to him to take actions that would return him to being the center of attention.  
  
Then anger flashed through him, and understanding. Yes, Draco should have known.   
  
And that had been how Kennilworth had played  _him_. He had picked up on Draco’s insecurities—and he wouldn’t have had to know Harry for that, only Draco. It was close to the surface, when you spent time around him, how upset Draco was about his past. How he stepped around it as though it was a lake full of thinning ice, and how someone playing on that—whether reporting on it or using it as a tool against him—would infuriate Draco.  
  
So Kennilworth had told Draco that, and Draco was just off-balance enough, just fragile enough, to believe it. Harry’s past with Draco doubtless didn’t help. Draco had turned and leaped from a friendship he must have decided was a cover straight into a pair of arms ready to receive him.  
  
Draco was ranting on about it, about Harry’s master plan that involved going to the papers for enough money to live comfortably for a year, but Harry didn’t have to listen. And he braced his palms back against the window and pushed outwards, straight into Draco. Draco had to let him go or fall backwards into the street.  
  
Harry sneered at him as Draco blinked, and then tossed his head at Kennilworth. “What other friends has he told you about who you just thought were using you?” he murmured.  
  
“I’m the one who can tell you that, since I’m right here and more sensitive to Draco’s feelings than  _you_ are,” Kennilworth snapped, and crowded up to Draco’s side. “I was the one who revealed Gregory’s dependence on him, and the way that Pansy Parkinson wanted to seduce him even though she knew he was gay, and—”  
  
Harry laughed breathlessly. “Isolating you from anyone who could possibly help you,” he said, and looked at Draco. “Yes, I should recognize that. The thing is, when it happened to me, it was my cousin wanting to make sure that no one would stop him from beating me up. I have no idea what it is here.”  
  
Draco stared at him. His eyes were still fragile, and full of light.  
  
Harry spoke only to him. Kennilworth was an arsehole, not worthy of his attention. “You should have remembered that I hate the press. That I hate the fame. And the papers’ interest hasn’t faded one little bit. If I wanted to court them, all I’d have to do is give an interview.” He pushed his fringe back from his forehead, and people in the street turned around. Harry laughed bitterly. “See?”  
  
He stepped towards Draco and poked him in the chest, making him sway. “If anyone was going to believe that our friendship was manipulative and someone was selling secrets to the press, they’d suspect you before me. Any  _sane_ person, at least.”  
  
He glanced at Kennilworth. “You know now that he just happens to have revealed some damaging ‘truth’ about everyone in your life. And how long did you know him, anyway? Where was he before this?”  
  
“I’ve been observing Draco from a distance, hoping to find out enough truth that I could convince him—”  
  
Even Kennilworth shut up before the jagged laughter that came out of Harry’s mouth. Harry shook his head.  
  
“In other words, doing the exact same thing he was ready to damn me for.” Harry turned back to Draco. His heart still ached, both for the look on Draco’s face and from the memory of what they’d had, but the anger was there also, burning. Part of him didn’t care that Kennilworth was obviously a skilled manipulator if he could make Draco believe stupid things about people who had been friends with him for far longer than Harry had.  
  
Part of him was still betrayed that Draco would  _ever_ believe such tripe.  
  
“I’ll stay away from you and not use you anymore,” he announced to Draco. “I hope you find what you’re looking for.” And he turned and stalked away from Draco, leaving only silence behind him.   
  
For a minute. Then he heard Kennilworth speaking, soothingly, trying to get Draco to walk away and go back to his house, it sounded like.  
  
Harry shook his head. One way or another, his outburst had probably destroyed any chance of ever becoming friends with Draco.  
  
But then, he didn’t know that he wanted Draco for a friend anymore.  
  
*  
  
“It sounded very convincing when he said it. You had to be there.”  
  
Harry paused. He was in the middle of leaving the Leaky Cauldron, where he’d been drinking with Ron, and he was looking forwards to an hour or so of studying Arithmancy before he went to bed. His head was clear enough for that.  
  
Draco stood behind him when he turned around. His head was bowed, and his voice was small, but clear. Harry studied him, and felt a great weariness, both because Draco obviously did, and because his ears were painful with the steady beat of his heart.  
  
“Maybe I had to be there for that. But I don’t have to be there for someone who would believe that I was just using him for—for something that wouldn’t even matter.” Harry shook his head. “Someone who could listen to me for weeks and still believe all that.”  
  
Draco looked up, and the expression in his eyes—  
  
Harry caught his breath noisily. Even after seeing Draco’s face in Diagon Alley, he had thought of Draco’s primary emotion about his past as  _anger._ He wanted to bristle about it and throw insults in Harry’s face over it. He had.  
  
But now, Harry realized that he was doing a lot better than Draco, whatever the public and certain Auror instructors might have to say about the matter.  
  
“Come on,” said Harry, and inevitably, his voice was kinder. He held out a hand, and Draco stumbled forwards and clutched it.  
  
“I’ve got rid of him,” Draco whispered into his neck. His fingers felt more like marble than human flesh. “I don’t—he was whispering everything I was afraid of, and that made it sound true. And you have no idea—you don’t know how convincing it was, to know that I—to hear that I—”  
  
He broke off with a sob as dry as an ancient branch, and finally whispered, “I wanted the friendship with you to be true  _so much_. It was a nightmare to hear it wasn’t.”  
  
Harry caught his breath, and pulled Draco into his embrace. Draco came, his head bowed in a way that might look meek, but the clutch of his arms around Harry’s middle was desperate.  
  
Harry kissed Draco’s hair, and tried to make that gesture welcoming and platonic and forgiving all at once. “Come on. You can spend the night.”  
  
Draco tensed for a moment. “I’m not ready for—”  
  
Visions of the future burst to life in Harry’s head, but he only touched Draco gently in the glow of their reflected light, and said softly, “I won’t ask you for that. Not until you’re ready.”  
  
Draco nestled further into his shoulder, and for a moment, they stood there, swaying gently under the combined influence of drink and emotions. Harry closed his eyes and tightened his hold.  
  
His choice to resist breaking and anger and the end of a friendship. But his choice, too, to forgive.   
  
And hope.  
  
He took Draco home.  
  
 **The End.**


End file.
